


Say Nothing

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon - Enhances original, Characters - Family Dynamics, Characters - Good villain(s), Characters - Strongly in character, Characters - Well-handled emotions, Drama, First Age, Writing - Foreshadowing, Writing - Well-handled PoV(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2002-09-13
Packaged: 2018-03-23 07:19:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3759350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maeglin, son of the Dark Elf, has to deal after his mother´s murder with the deep emotions that finally will lead to his downfall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

A/N: Inspired by a debate on Silmfics regarding Maeglin. It's just me trying to put together my ideas of him, and why he acts in the way that he does.

  
Night hung low and heavy on the shoulders of the Encircling Mountains. The wind was up, and a storm was brewing in the West, lashings of rain battering the plain of Tumladen. Amidmost, the Hidden City sparkled like a bright jewel set in the darkness of the Echoriath. Its white walls shone with the flames of many torches, and the strange blue light of the gems brought from Tirion by Turgon and his followers. Normally at this time, the city would be filled with song and laughter, the King's feasting-halls overflowing with the light of many fires and the sound of many voices.

  
Tonight, Gondolin was quiet in mourning. An hour had barely passed since the news of the death of the King's sister had become known, and many were given rather to tears than song. Aredhel Ar-Feiniel, the White Lady of the Noldor, beloved among her people, now lying slain in the healing chambers with poison in her blood. The Elf who claimed her as his wife now lay in the dungeons, his hands chained that they might do no more malice. The guard on the walls of the city had been doubled, for seldom one reached the great gate without being spotted, but tonight that very thing had happened, to the ruin of the high princess.

  
As the candles burned low and the night wore on, voices were heard murmuring below in the courtyard. The Elves sought each other, perhaps to share their grief, and dispel it, as the torches sent the darkness to flight. Yet there was one who was alone in his sorrow.

  
He looked down on them from his high window, elves proud and noble yet stricken by grief for the fair and gentle Ar-Feiniel. He watched for a while, silently translating the strange words in his head. Then he broke down and wept.

  
Maeglin had known tears before, in the dark forest where he spent his childhood. His father had always taught him that it was wrong to cry, wrong to show weakness. But had his father's teachings not been proved wrong? Tonight, Eöl was chained in the dark dungeons of the city, without his slick black armour, and his stolen sword resided with his son. It seemed that many of his counsels were proving wrong now.

  
Eöl had always taught his son that the Noldor were evil, and they were the reason for the return of the Black Foe. At the time, Maeglin had believed him, for he had never seen one of their kind apart from his mother. But when his father began to spend time away with the Dwarves more frequently, Aredhel had begun to teach him about her kin in the North. She taught him their secret, beautiful tongue, and Maeglin wondered if the makers of such sweet-sounding words could truly be evil at heart. She told him stories, wonderful stories, tales of great deeds and bravery in face of darkness. And here, in Gondolin, the home that Aredhel had always been willing to tell of, the secret tongue was spoken by all.

  
Maeglin's mind turned back to his arrival in Gondolin. He was weary, yes, after many long leagues of travel, riding in haste at his mother's side, the stolen sword at his belt. Aredhel had laughed, basking in the bright sunlight that had been denied to her by Eöl and his enchanted forest. As they neared the land of her people, she seemed to grow in height and strength until she seemed taller than any Elf-man, and a great fire burned in her eyes. Maeglin was an inexperienced rider, and soon tired, but drew his strength from her, and so they reached the hidden way.

  
He remembered the amazement of the guards at the gate, on seeing their princess return from the wild beyond all hope, with a son worthy of his Noldorin mother's heritage. The guards had led them down the straight road across Tumladen, beneath the six glorious gates of Gondolin.

  
"One day, Lómion my son, you shall build the last, and greatest." She had said as they rode side by side. As they neared the city, Maeglin became aware of the sound of many voices rejoicing, and his heart lifted to see the King's Tower, gleaming above the city in the late sunlight. _I have come home at last_ , he thought to himself as they passed beneath the final gate and entered the city.

  
Gondolin had many wonders, Maeglin discovered as his mother proudly led him into her brother's palace, her home. It was quite bewildering to Maeglin, who had been unused to such great crowds and noise in the silence of Nan Elmoth. His eyes were dazzled by the brilliance and splendour of Aredhel's city. Every wall seemed to be shot with gold, every lamp was hung with crystals. And amid all the wonder and beauty, the tall King sat upon his throne with his daughter at his side.

  
Maeglin remembered little that was said in their first meeting. But he remembered as he bent to kiss her hand, pressing the soft white skin to his lips for just slightly too long, breathing in her sweet scent as he rose, his fingers brushing past a lock of her hair that ran loose like a river of gold... Idril. Her name was Idril, the silverfoot of her people, and now the love of Maeglin's life. Aredhel's tales of her beauty certainly never did her justice. Aredhel…

  
There came a soft knock at the door. The young Elf sat up, quickly brushing the tears from his dark eyes. He was seated on a long bed, dressed with a richly-embroidered red coverlet and snow-white sheets. Apart from the bed, the room was sparsely furnished - a small mirror, a table on which his father's great black sword lay, and a chair were the only other adornments. Turgon had not wished to over-awe his young guest on his first night in his city, so he ordered his servants to prepare a simple room for him. It was no doubt no less than what he was used to, living wild in the woods with his Moriquendi father...

  
Turgon pushed the door open, and was at once painfully reminded of his sister and the one that slew her. Maeglin bore the dark hair and eyes of his father, but his soft white skin and delicate features were more reminiscent of his mother's kin. Turgon noticed that his nephew had not changed his clothes - he was still clad in the worn green travel-cloak and dark brown boots that had served him on his long journey. From a distance, he could have passed for any wild Elf of the woods, but under closer examination his face revealed his high kinship amongst the Noldor. In the face of his uncle, Maeglin saw a strong resemblance to his mother, and turned away, lest he cry again. A sign of weakness… No, that was Eöl's teaching, and it must be wrong…

  
"Maeglin?" Turgon asked, almost timidly. There was something else in his nephew's dark eyes, beyond the raw grief for his mother and the sense of isolation alone in a strange city, a hard edge that reminded Turgon of shadows beneath trees, a glint of darkened steel.

  
Maeglin made no answer. Silence was the only friend he had made in Nan Elmoth, aside from his mother, and she was dead. Silence would protect him from unwanted questions.

  
Turgon took a tall crystal decanter from the table and poured himself a glass of wine. He offered one to Maeglin, but the young Elf shook his head. Turgon took a long swill of dark liquid, enough at least to clear his grief-fogged senses, and spoke.

  
"What is your mother-name, child?"

  
No answer.

  
"Surely she had a special name for you? It is the custom of our people for a mother to name the child as her heart tells, whatever the father may think."

  
At these words, Maeglin's head shot up, and his dark eyes were fixed on his uncle. He spoke, for the first time since he had learned of his mother's death.

  
"Lómion. She called me Lómion."

  
"Lómion." The Lord of Gondolin mused. "Son of Twilight. That you are in looks, truly. But what in spirit?"

  
Maeglin looked at his uncle, confused. Turgon drained his glass and set it down.

  
"Never mind. I see you are tired, and weary with grief. Will you rest a while?" Turgon held out his hands. After a short time, realising what was asked of him, Maeglin slipped his cloak from his shoulders, and handed it to Turgon. The King marvelled at the lightness of it, for at first glance it appeared to be woven of heavy fabric. As he looked closely however, he saw that small strands of iron were woven into it, in such a way that it would provide light protection to the wearer.

  
"Who gave you this cloak?" Turgon asked.

  
"My father."

  
He should have known.

  
It was true that Eöl was a master smith. When he had been set in bonds and led away, the guards marvelled at the fine metalwork as they removed his armour, working beneath his cold glare. Strangely, he carried no sword, but at his side hung an empty sheath where one should be. Yet Eöl's most potent weapon seemed to be his eyes, burning with hidden rage at his captors, and his son. Maeglin did not know exactly what had happened that had darkened his father's soul, but by his many scars and fear of light, he could make a fair guess. Turgon shuddered at the thought of this Dark Elf drawing his sister into his forest, imprisoning her, taking her night after night...

  
And now the product of this union, if it could be so called, sat before him on the bed, in his city. He did not quite know what to feel for the strange, grief-stricken Elf. When he had sat beside his sister, feeling her hand turn cold within his grasp, pleading her to stay with him for just a time longer, he had tried very hard to hate Maeglin, the son of her slayer. Yet he knew he ought to love and honour his kinsman, his nephew, the last memory of his lost sister? Besides, he found he was beginning to like Maeglin for his own sake. The young Elf was quiet, as if unused to company and large palaces, yet his eyes betrayed his marvel in all that he saw. He reminded Turgon of a young elfling, exploring the wonders of Gondolin for the first time, which indeed he was. He felt a sudden urge to show Maeglin the beauty of the fountains in spring, and the great jewel-hoards beneath the palace, and the ornate loveliness of his own chambers. Yet, from what Maeglin had said at their brief first meeting, his first love seemed to be smith-work, and the warm glow of the forge. He resolved to show his sister-son the great metalworking smithies that burned day and night in the North of the city. Although Maeglin seemed to be eager to leave his old life behind, he was talented in his father's art, there were few with that skill in Gondolin, and he could certainly be of use. Besides, by the haunted look in his dark eyes, it seemed to be one of only a few happy memories he carried with him from Nan Elmoth.

  
Turgon realised he had been silent for a long time, and that he was still holding the cloak. Maeglin watched him, motionless on the bed. Turgon draped the cloak over the back of the chair.

  
"I will send servants with some better clothes for you tomorrow. Try to rest, sister-son. Things will be better in the morning."

  
Maeglin stood up. Turgon wondered what he was doing until he felt the light touch of Maeglin's hand against his own. Of course. Aredhel must have taught her son some of the customs of the Noldor, in the hope that he might return with her to Gondolin. And now he had, at a high price. His skin was icy cold to the touch.

  
"Good night, Lómion." Turgon said, then, before his own tears for his sister came, slipped out quietly. He shut the door behind him, leaned on it, and sighed. Darkness fell within the chamber as the lamp sputtered and died.

  
Maeglin came to the open window, and looked down at the courtyard filled with mourning Elves and their lit candles. The sun was beginning to stain the Western sky red, and the rain was easing. The storm was passing into the East, its only memory a faint intermittent rumble of thunder over the mountains.

  
"Good night, Lómion." Maeglin said softly, then pulled the shutter in and made the room completely dark.

  
~End of Part 1...~  



	2. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maeglin, son of the Dark Elf, has to deal after his mothers murder with the deep emotions that finally will lead to his downfall.

A/N: A (short) interlude, written because Part II is being difficult. A tense little scene between Maeglin and Idril, set close to the time of Eärendil's birth.

 

 

 

The two figures stood side by side, wrapped in their cloaks against the adversity of the winter gale. It seemed that their faces were frozen, their bodies motionless, except for the slight movement of their hair in the wind. The taller of the two, the Elf-man, would occasionally blink or shiver, or glance backwards at his companion. Her eyes were closed, her whole form exuding a kind of serene calmness. She seemed lost in her own thoughts, and barely noticed as the wind began to howl between the spires of the gleaming city.

The Elf-man turned, unnerved by his companion's absolute stillness. In appearance he was her opposite - while his hair was black as a raven's wing, she was golden as the sunrise. While he clad himself in the sombre colours of his house, she remained radiant white, gleaming like a star on the city wall.

"Idril?" He said quietly. Her eyes opened, revealing tones of brilliant blue that contrasted with his own, shadowy and almost black in colour. Her eyes were unfocused, staring straight ahead. If she was aware of his presence, she gave no sign of it.

"Celebrindal, it is time to go. Your father will be worried." He said, more strongly this time. He touched her arm gently, and slowly she awoke from her trance.

"What did you see?" She asked. He shook his head.

"Nothing."

She sighed softly, her breath coming as a cloud of steam in the frigid air. "I am truly alone, then. Not even you, Maeglin cousin, shares in my curse."

"Come back to the palace, Idril." Maeglin said, and reached to grasp her arm, but she stiffened suddenly and pulled away, and when she spoke, the voice was not her own.

"No... wait, it's coming again, it's... stronger this time... I cannot see - ah! Help me, they come! They come and they would take the city, but... no, the light is dawn, it must be dawn that stains the clouds with blood..."

Maeglin grasped her shoulders firmly and shook her, his face full of worry. King Turgon had often spoken of his daughter's strange sight and mysterious dreams, and his regret that even the finest doctors of his city could not find a cure for the madness of Idril. Maeglin had occasionally seen his cousin thus, but thought little of it, deeming it a product of the sickness that had fallen on her since the day she first beheld Tuor. The Mortal. Maeglin could not yet bring himself to call him by name, preferring, "My mortal friend", or "The King's noble guest". In his heart he had many such names for the fair sun-child. Usurper of love. Thief of Gondolin's treasure. Thrall of the Valar.

Maeglin realised his fingers were exacting an iron grip on Idril's shoulders, and quickly released her. For a moment she was small, no longer the high princess of Gondolin, but a trembling frightened Elf-child in need of protection. She did not resist Maeglin's embrace, nor the soft feeling of his fingers in her hair.

Maeglin had always wondered at the delicate beauty of Idril, and how she reminded him of his gems. The only difference was that she was perfect. Gems were flawed. His keen eyes had picked out many a tiny fault in stones others deemed pure. He loved everything about Idril - her gentle voice, her river of golden hair, her fair face, her far-seeing eyes. Yet she seemed so frail, so fragile, so easily broken. Just like the mortal who had taken her to wife.

When at last they pulled apart, Maeglin's smile was grim.

"Come on, Celebrindal. I expect your husband will be waiting."

 

A/N (again): Don't ask me where that came from. I really don't know.


	3. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maeglin, son of the Dark Elf, has to deal after his mothers murder with the deep emotions that finally will lead to his downfall.

A/N: This chapter is considerably darker than the first, and I should mention that Maeglin is somewhat disturbed by this point, so his opinions and brainworkings are his, and not mine...

  
It was a complicated dance.

  
As the most skilled people among the Noldor, the Gondolindhrim always sought for perfection. They devoted a full share of their talent to the arts, and today it was revealed in glory. The King's Square was a whirl of feet and ribbons, tantalising to the eye, yet never a step out of place, and all perfectly timed to the music.

  
_Like a machine, a beautiful, intricate one, but doomed. Doomed and unable to save itself from destruction, because, after all, it is only a machine._

  
Maeglin Lómion, the son of twilight, leaned against a marble column bathed in the evening sun. The column was tall and strong, cunningly wrought by many hands, its curved shape gleaming white as the rest of the city. The bright sun was forcing his eyed downward, so he must watch the play of light and shadow on the flagstones of the courtyard. Light and shadow, daylight and stardusk... the forces that had shaped him beneath the trees of his childhood. His father's darkness, a grim smile and the grate of a steel door after nightfall. His mother's light, the light in her face as she spoke of Valinor, of Tirion, of Gondolin. Her tears. His comfort. Their resolve to leave together.

  
He had made his decision. When Aredhel had fallen into darkness, wounded by Eöl's javelin, he had chosen the light. And she, oh, she was the light, in every possible sense of the word.

  
Idril. Her name was too beautiful for everyday use. It flowed far too freely from the lips of others in the city, earning them a sharp glare from the King's nephew. When he had her, he would keep her name for himself alone, and everybody else would simply call her "Queen."

  
_Idril Celebrindal. Gondolin's dancing silverfoot. The love of my life, and she barely acknowledges my existance._

  
But all that would change. He would wait patiently, for she would come tonight. He was sure of that. And tonight, he would tell her.

  
His heart swelled with the goodness of it all, the feeling that all would be right in a scant few hours. He would wait. When he told her, as he planned, she would listen and forgive, and in time come to love him for his honesty. How noble he was being! How he put the needs of the people above his own. These past seven years, he had hated himself. He had lain awake at night, wrestling his demons, searching fruitlessly for a justification of what he had done.

  
_Betrayer..._

  
But all that would change.

  
He would wait.

  
She would love him.

  
And now the minstrels began to play a popular tune, one that Maeglin recognised. It was the new lightness in his heart that allowed him to raise a smile to his lips, to clap with the others. Salgant, who had been leaning against a pillar across the square, looking bored, immediately began to clap in imitation.

  
The world made Maeglin laugh. All was well, and she would be his.

  
"Lord Maeglin?"

  
A shadow fell across his face, temporarily blocking the dance of light and shade on the ground. He looked up, and saw the smiling face of an elf-maid. She was offering her arm, an invitation to join the dance. For a moment, he thought he would. Her face was young and pretty, and her dark hair was inlaid with jewels. Let Turgon think he had at last found a beloved of his own. And why not close his eyes as she spun in his arms, and imagine she was...

  
But no. If Idril saw him in the arms of another, she would turn from him forever, and his plans would be ruined.

  
"Will you honour me with a dance?"

  
Maeglin shook his head. Disappointed, the girl moved away, and was lost in the crowd of silk and jewels. Later, he saw her dancing with Ecthelion, the foolish flute-playing Lord of the Fountains, laughing and twirling her arms in the air to make the ribbons flutter.

  
She laughed because she did not know.

  
Nearby, an uncharacteristically merry Pengolodh had been roped into the merry-making, spinning the golden-haired niece of Glorfindel with one hand, and balancing a cup of wine with the other.

  
Maeglin scanned the crowd. He would wait patiently, like a lizard in the sun. He would wait.

  
And here was Enerdhil, the shy young lad who worked at his forge, dancing with a girl who wore a green stone at her neck. By the fountain, Duilin and Egalmoth were deep in conversation, their words indiscernable for the music and laughter. Rog, the huge, strapping Lord of the Hammer, was nearby, in the arms of little Lothiel, Duilin's youngest daughter. It was a comical sight, and Maeglin allowed himself to smile. He would smile now, but the greater joy would be his later.

  
Salgant across the square shifted uncomfortably. He was fat, and pale, and disliked the sun. He could not tell what expression was on Maeglin's face, and was itching for a closer look that he might copy it.

  
And then, a sudden hush fell over the crowd. Simultaneously the setting sun slipped behind the gem-laid roofs of the buildings, casting prismic rainbows of light before golden twilight fell on the square.

  
Maeglin looked up.

  
But what he saw was more painful to his eyes than Vása's cruellest stroke.

  
Two figures stood alone in the middle of the square, for the crowd had parted to make way for them. The light of the dying sun was caught in both their hair, because it was golden. Their eyes were focused on each other, and to them, none of the watchers mattered.

  
As one, they began to sway to the gentle music of a harp. Their arms wound around each other, and the elf-maid's slender fingers wound in the man's coarse blond hair. His feet stumbled, yet unused to the Elvish way of dancing, but she steadied him. He mumbled something, smiling an apology, and then leaned closer to whisper in the elf-maid's ear. Her cheeks flushed a pale shade of red, and her blue eyes sparkled mischievously as she ran a finger along the line of the man's chin, pulling him into a tighter embrace with her other hand.

  
Feeling sick, Maeglin sagged against the pillar, the strength gone from his limbs. How he hated the man. Hated him for loving her. Hated him for touching her. Hated him for seducing her, placing a madness on her that made her love him in return. Her every smile to him, her every casual touch, twisted the knife in Maeglin's heart further every day. The knife that she had thrust in, the blade of ice that had pierced him the day she yielded her immortal heart to another.

  
Hate. All the love had left Maeglin long ago, and he was an empty shell, with only hate - and hope - to cling on to. How could she fail to see? She was throwing her life away for an all-too-brief summer in his arms, a summer that would soon fade into inevitable winter. In a way he hated her too, for failing to see her wrong choice, for living a lie.

  
Like him.

  
He turned away, and left the square to the lovers, his mind working furiously. Tonight, he would find a way to get her alone. He would tell her. Then, everything would be right. And how could she still love Tuor - that mortal - when he could save her? How could he compete with that? He had nothing to offer her, save death, and sorrow. No, she would turn to him. She would give him the love he rightfully deserved.

  
Maeglin's fevered mind required an answer. A way to lure her to him. A bait, as it was. And an answer came to him then. The child.

  
Even then, when he was almost fallen to darkness, he was still capable of feeling regret. It was true, he had no love for the boy, for his father's blood ran strong in his veins. Yet the child was innocent.

  
_A lot of people are innocent. My mother was innocent, and she had to die--_

  
So it would be. Idril would understand that using the child was the only way for him to claim her. She would understand. And he would say, as the child's eyes became heavy with the drugged sleep Maeglin had prepared for him, he would say, "I'm sorry." And he would mean it.

  
_Was Eöl sorry when the javelin struck Aredhel, rather than his son? Was he sorry when he lay in prison, while the flame of her life flickered and died? No, Eöl had shown no remorse. He chosen not to save Aredhel. He had let the poison carry her to Mandos, and he had said nothing._

_  
But I am better than my father. I will use the child only to gain his mother's love..._

  
A dark smile twisting his features, he turned down a dark street leading to the North of the city, where he guessed Eärendil might be.

  
~

  
The son of Idril and Tuor sat on the very edge of the white stone wall, his feet dangling loosely over the side. His toes pointed down to the green grass below where a herd of sheep were grazing, appearing tiny from such a great height. His eyes were closed, yet his face was troubled, as if straining to hear a distant sound, or concentrating very hard. The wind was in the North-West that day, and blew in a chill stream about the mound upon Tumladen, its cold fingers sweeping his golden hair back.

  
He did not notice the dark figure emerge from the shadows behind him.

  
Still smiling from his planned victory, Maeglin was careful to approach silently. Gaining the child's trust was imperative, and his acting must be flawless.

  
Maeglin had become a skilful actor during his time in Gondolin. For everyone who knew him, he wore a different face. For Turgon, he was loyal and brave, a worthy heir. For his doting smiths, he was gruff and taciturn, showing joy only in metals and forging. For the endless whirl of Elf-Lords and nobles of the city, ever-glad to make friends of royal blood, the face was the same - calm, polite, detatched in a friendly way. It was only Idril who seemed to penetrate all his disguises. It was only Idril he dared to open up for, but now, he would smile for Eärendil.

  
Maeglin leaned over, and gently tapped his beloved's son on the shoulder.

  
Eärendil started, and would have slipped if it had not been for Maeglin's steadying hand. His eyes widened slightly when he saw the elf, and then narrowed to a suspicious glare.

  
"Might I join you?" Maeglin asked amicably. Eärendil made no answer, but pulled his feet back onto the wall, his eyes fixed on Maeglin's hands.

  
_Very well, play it gently..._

  
"There is no need to be afraid. I am not going to push you."

  
His tone was light. Eärendil's face softened slightly, yet did not lose its mistrust. He spoke warily.

  
"Hello, Lord Maeglin."

  
"There's no need to call me Lord. I am your cousin, am I not?"

  
Eärendil considered carefully. "I suppose you are." And then, importantly, "You are my second cousin in fact."

  
"Then you can trust me. Those of the Edain and the Golodhrim trust their kin."

  
Eärendil seemed satisfied at that, so Maeglin risked a move closer. He stretched out his arms, and leaned on the wall, breathing in deeply. Eärendil watched him, nervously at first, but when he showed no sign of pushing him off the wall, he relaxed, and began to listen to the wind again.

  
"What would you hear?"

  
Eärendil's eyes snapped open. Maeglin was watching him in interest.

  
"What?"

  
"You are listening to the wind, are you not? What are you trying to hear?"

  
A lucky guess. It had struck a chord, and Eärendil met his eyes for the first time. He had Idril's eyes, blue as the sky in midsummer.

  
"I would hear the sea." Eärendil said. "Father tells me of it, of the crashing of the waves on the shore, of the roaring of the water into the Rainbow Cleft. It makes me sad, for I have never seen it."

  
"I understand," Maeglin said. "I too have never beheld the wide ocean, but I am told it is very fair. My mother used to sing to me, you know. She would sing to me of the gulls crying on the immortal shores, across the Sundering Sea..." He trailed off, his eyes closed. He laid a hand on his heart for emphasis, and sighed sadly. In truth, he barely remembered his mother's stories. The only ones that had sparked his interest were those of Gondolin, and he was there now. What need had he of stories?

  
"My mother loves the water," continued Eärendil. "She tells me such stories, the legend of Ossë and Uinen of the Maiar, the story of how the Teleri came to Aman - " he faltered. "But I don't really know very much. I have never seen it."

  
Maeglin smiled. "Then maybe we are not so different, you and I?" He moved forward again, so he was right at the edge of the wall, within arm's reach of the child. Eärendil did not move away. His trust was almost gained...

  
"Come," Maeglin said. "I would show you something."

  
"What?" said Eärendil, whose feet had resumed their dangling over the side of the city wall.

  
"A stone. A moonstone, that gleams blue and green in its depths, like the roaring sea itself. When you close your hand around it, and listen very carefully - " Maeglin lowered his voice to a whisper, so Eärendil leaned closer to hear, "You can almost hear the song of the waves on the shore."

  
The child's hesitation vanished. "Show me!"

  
Maeglin smiled. "All right, then. Hold out your arms, and I shall lift you over."

  
Eärendil eagerly stretched out his small hands to Maeglin. However, the Dark Elf's son did not lift him down. Using his smith's muscles, he thrust out his arms suddenly, so that Eärendil was dangling over the edge, suspended only by Maeglin's grip. The child gasped in fear, but was helpless to save himself from the drop below. For a moment, all was deathly quiet, save for the howling of the wind in the mountains.

  
Then Maeglin smiled benevolently, and pulled Eärendil back to safety inside the walls.

  
"You did not think I was going to drop you, did you?" He asked. Eärendil smiled ruefully, ashamed for doubting him.

  
"Of course not, Uncle Maeglin."

  
"Good. Come, then, my home is nearby. I shall show you there." He said, and led the golden child away down a dark street.

  
~

  
A large platform had been raised in the King's square. It was draped with cloth of gold and silver, and the five thrones were set with bright gems. The largest of the five was occupied by Turgon, who adopted a relaxed posture, as if used to the his kingly seat.. Many of the people said he was as a King of old, in Valinor before the darkening. Today, cloaked in red velvet with a circlet of gold on his head, he looked strong and imposing even as Finwë, his grandsire.

  
Next to him sat Idril Celebrindal. Her face was a mask of calm beauty, and she had cast off her white cloak, leaving her bare-shouldered. Occasionally, she would shoot a glance at her husband, who was seated on the other side of Turgon. Tuor looked uncomfortable, but determined not to show himself up in front of the crowd.

  
Two thrones were empty. The larger of the two was Maeglin's, set with a black jewel wound between two serpents. The smaller throne belonged to Eärendil. It sat empty, beside Idril. The dancing had not yet finished, for the people were waiting for the King's nephew and grandson to arrive.

  
Suddenly, Idril stood up, letting the silver coverlet slip from her lap.

  
"I think I should find Eärendil. It is almost moonrise, and I would not have him miss the festival," she said. Her voice was light, but betrayed a hint of anxiety.

  
"I am sure he is safe in the city." Turgon said. "He has always been one to wander, has he not? I am more worried about whether your cousin will make an appearance or not. I think he has been distracted by that forge of his and forgotten about us..."

  
"Then I will go and uncover the truth of the matter," said Idril, and lowered her head to her father and King before taking her leave. Her barefooted steps were light down the platform, and to all she appeared to glide, as if she had no need of the ground at all.

  
It was only when she was out of sight that she broke into a run.

  
~

  
Maeglin filled two glasses with the dark liquid. He was thankful for the lack of light in his home. If it had been brighter, the oily residue in Eärendil's glass would have been plainly visible.

  
Taking a deep breath, he handed it over. Idril's son examined the glass suspiciously, then sniffed it, wrinkling his nose at the strong smell.

  
"What is it?" he asked.

  
"Wine." Was that harsh sound really his voice? He must be more careful. "The finest Gondolin has to offer," he managed with a smile. When the child drank the wine, the sleeping draught would kick in quickly, and he would be completely at Maeglin's mercy.

  
_A little bit of light persuasion. That was all it was. He was not going to hurt the child, or anything like that._

  
A pause, as Eärendil swirled it about in his glass. Maeglin watched him, and took a sip of his own wine. He waited. After a while, Eärendil spoke.

  
"Can I see the stone now?"

  
"The stone?"

  
"The sea-stone. You told me about it, remember? You said-"

  
He was interrupted by a loud knocking on the door, and the voice that reached through pierced him to the heart.

  
"Maeglin? Are you there?"

  
_Idril. At last she had come. And so the plan is almost complete..._

  
"I'll get it." And then, in a harsher tone, "You stay there."

  
Slightly frightened by Maeglin's sudden change in tone, Eärendil obeyed and slipped into the shadows. The dark elf inhaled deeply, then pushed the iron door open.

  
He was expecting bright starlight crowning Idril's face, picking out the silver that she had wound into her hair for the festival, gleaming in her eyes. Instead, the light surrounding her and streaming into his house was red. Red like blood.

  
_It must be dawn that stains the clouds..._

  
And yet it was not. It was too early for dawn. The stars had not yet been put to flight by the rising sun.

  
"Idril." His voice caught slightly. "What a pleasant surprise."

  
The elf-maid's face was ash-white, and she was out of breath, as if she had been running.

  
"Where is my son?" she demanded.

  
"He is quite safe, I assure-"

  
"Eärendil! Ionya!" She called, her clear voice reaching into the shadowy rooms.

  
"Mother!"

  
Maeglin could only watch as the child leapt into his mother's arms, and clung to her for dear life. Idril glared at him reproachfully. He realised an explanation was needed.

  
"I was showing him a stone I carved. I thought it would interest him."

  
Her voice surprised him. It was barely controlled, quivering with rage. "Keep away from my son! You had no right to bring him here."

  
_It was time._

  
"And you had no right to steal my heart, silverfoot."

  
"What? -Maeglin?"

  
He stepped forward suddenly, and before Idril had time to react, he clasped her neck with a grip of iron and pressed her mouth to his. She struggled violently, but Maeglin, hardened by his years working in the forge, simply tightened his grip and continued to take what had been forbidden. All her loveliness, all her sweetness and fire, all melded together in her kiss. Maeglin felt intoxicated with it all, his head spun. The red light intensified as he held her, and it seemed to be the light of flame.

  
_The flame of passion gleams bright for us._

  
At last, he released her. She reeled, her eyes wide with fear. Eärendil stood by, his face a picture of shock.

  
Maeglin looked into her eyes. Those eyes, those beautiful blue eyes, reflecting the glow of the red sky. He would tell her now, then he would take her for his own. Forever.

  
"You knew it was me, didn't you?" His voice was harsh and full of breath.

  
"Knew what?"

  
"It was me that betrayed the city to Morgoth. I did it for you! I love you!"

  
Idril backed slowly away, shaking her head in utter disgust.

  
"Love me? Love me!" Her voice rose. "Do you think that was an action of love? Do you think that you can just take as your lust would have you? You are no better than your father. I hate you. I despise you. I wish you had never been cursed upon this city!"

  
A crash of thunder sounded out over the Echoriath. Idril and Maeglin both turned in that instant, and they both saw the sight that they had dreaded most.

  
A black tide was breaking over the white peaks in the distance, with larger, more sinister shapes in its midst. The air was thick with cries, voices of death, and the cries of the people as they knew they were betrayed.

  
"Run, Eärnil!" Idril cried. She made to flee herself, but Maeglin was too quick, and the trap of his arms snapped shut around her. She kicked and struggled viciously, using her nails to flay his skin. Blood ran down his cheek, but he barely noticed and slid his hand to his belt. At first, she did not know what he was doing, and continued to struggle.

  
Then, she felt the edge of cold, black steel slide against her skin, and froze. Maeglin had drawn Anguirel, and pressed its oiled blade to the smooth skin around her collar-bone. Eärendil stopped dead, and made a heart-rending cry. "Mother!"

  
"If you want your mother to live, you will not run," Maeglin said. He spat in disgust. "I will cast you off the walls myself, worthless half-breed."

  
Eärendil spoke, sounding older than his years. "Do what you will to me, but if you harm my mother, you shall feel the bite of my sword, you traitor!"

  
Maeglin smiled. "Brave words. Do not fear, I will not hurt her. Would you hurt that which you cherished above all?"

  
Gently, he laid a hand where Idril's golden hair met her white skin. He pulled her into a protective embrace, resting her head on his shoulder while keeping the black sword balanced perfectly. He pulled her body closer to him, feeling the frantic beating of her heart. Below them, the iron boots of the orcs were beating on the green grass of Tumladen. Already the black tide was beneath the city walls. Arrows whistled overhead, and by the wails of the Gondolindhrim, some had struck their mark.

  
"Nothing in this world," Maeglin whispered into her hair, oblivious to the battle unfolding around them, "Nothing in this world, while I yet live, will keep me from my Idril."

  
And so it was that no-one heard the running footsteps in the streets behind. No-one heard the metallic ring of a sword being unsheathed. They all heard the voice.

  
"Turn and fight, traitor..."

  
**End**


End file.
